


The Girl Next Door

by wordsbymeganmichael



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 20:22:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5178383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsbymeganmichael/pseuds/wordsbymeganmichael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian Jones has just moved in next door to Mary Margaret Blanchard-Nolan, who has recently lost her husband. It doesn't take very long for them to mix up a friendship, and she soon has him doing the yard work that David used to do. When her daughter, Emma, comes over one day and witnesses this, she is stunned, both by the gall of her mother, and by the beautiful person that her mother's new neighbor turns out to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

“Mom, who’s that man in your yard?”  
At first, my mother’s confusion contorts her features, one eyebrow raised and her nose scrunched, but after a moment, she just smiles at me. “Oh, that’s Killian. He lives next door and offered to mow my lawn for me.”  
I can’t help but raise my eyebrows at her. “Mom, he’s cutting the tree branches, not mowing the grass.”  
Her smile only stretches out farther. “Yes, he offered to do that, too.” Craning her neck to look past me, she lets out a strange little chuckle. “Besides, he doesn’t look too bad doing the yardwork.”  
She fully deserves the slap on the arm she receives. “Mom! He’s half your age!”  
She nods. “Not quite. He’s 36 and I’m 54. If you count the 18 years I was frozen in the Enchanted Forest, we’re the same age.”  
“That’s not any better!”  
“How?” She looks thoroughly appalled.  
“I’m 36, mom! He and I are the same age! You can’t have a crush on your new neighbor when he and I are the same age! Even if you count the years you were frozen.”   
She must catch me looking back through the window at him, because she comments: “Oh, but I see you can.”  
It’s no use to argue, and I can feel the warmth of my red cheeks, fully obvious to her- but I argue anyway. “I do not.” Now it’s her turn to raise her eyebrows at me, and I can’t help but smile at her, the woman who knows me so well by just facial expressions. “I haven’t even spoken to him yet.”  
Without waiting for her response, I rush out the back door and close it behind me before she can follow.  
“Hello,” I call out, but he already turned around to the sound of the slamming back door. His facial expression makes it obvious that he was expecting my mother, but it’s far from displeased; I’m far from displeased, as well. The front of him is more perfect than the back, with his black hair, flowing like ocean waves, and his sea-glass-green eyes. His grey and black flannel shirt is unbuttoned enough to show off his sea of black chest hair, with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows to reveal his perfect forearms, covered in tattoos. After the moment we both need to grab hold of ourselves, he flashes a pearly white smile at me, which I return to him with the ease of a seasoned tennis player. “I’m Emma, Mary Margaret’s daughter.”   
My words make him do a double take. “No way. There’s no way you can be her - her daughter?” His words drip with a golden accent, I think some western European country - Ireland or Scotland or something. He can’t keep his eyes off of me, somehow trying to do the math without the knowledge of my mother’s missing eighteen years, and I do my best to hold back the smile swimming across my face, but fail.  
“Yeah, we get that a lot.” This time, when I introduce myself, I hold out my hand. “Anyway, I’m Emma.”  
His hands are rough and callused, hardworking hands that always have a hard story behind them. “Killian.” It rolls off his tongue, drowning deeply in his accent, in ways that words never seem to do with “American language” - needless to say, it’s breathtaking.  
“Killian,” I repeat, discovering how sweetly the name felt coming off of my tongue. “That’s beautiful.” A moment too late, I realized that those two words had accidentally slipped from between my teeth, a comment that I meant to keep to myself, which had accidentally made the whole situation more awkward. I try to fix it, alleviate the tension: “I mean-”  
But his smile stops my words in their tracks. “I understand what you mean, I actually get it a lot.” He slides his long, lean fingers through his shining black hair, pushing it off of his forehead. “It means, ‘to win a fierce battle’ in Irish. It was my grandfather’s name, actually.”  
“To win a fierce battle,” I repeat, mulling over just how different that is to the meaning of American names. “Emma just means ‘whole,’” I point out, as if proving my own point. “I wish it meant something as cool as yours. And it’s so…” At first, I can’t think of what I wanted to say, but it only took a moment to discover it: “American.”  
The edges of Killian’s lips turn up, a faint smile compared to the few he’s flashed me so far. “It’s actually German, and is very popular in my home country and the countries around it.”  
“Your home country?” He roped in my intrigue, and I suddenly want to know all about him - and then I notice the crown of sweat across his forehead, dripping off the line of his thick black hair. “Sorry, do you want to come in for a minute? Grab something to drink, maybe, or at least sit in the air conditioning?”  
“That would be great, actually. It’s so much more humid here than I’m used to back home.”  
When Killian follows me through the back door and sits down at the kitchen table, my mother cannot hide her smug smile, even as she turns away to pull the Brita water pitcher out of the fridge, and I just roll my eyes; turning back to Killian, I see his glance flashing back and forth between me and my mother. “You two really look to be sisters. Like, the same age sisters.”  
“We get that a lot,” my mother comments, filling a tall glass with ice cubes, then pouring the filtered water to the brim and setting it on the table in front of him.   
“How is this even possible?”  
“Well, I was very young when David and I had Emma, and I haven’t quite grown into my years yet.”  
“That’s the truth,” he mumbles into his glass of water, the condensation already dripping onto the tablecloth from the intense humidity, even in the air conditioning.   
“Mom, I don’t know if you know this, but Killian is from England.” I set the subject before it continues to travel down the path it was headed - we’re not ready for that yet.  
“Is that so?” she asks, very motherly.  
“Yes ma’am,” he replies, then takes a big gulp of water before continuing. “My parents met in England - my mum was Scottish, but my dad was from England. I was offered an opportunity to study in New York, and I fell in love with America. My parents are a little heartbroken, and my older brother Liam wasn’t happy to see me leave in the first place. But I decided to stay here anyway. I’ve been here for eight years, and they’ve come over three times and I’ve been back twice.” He downs another mouthful, tilting his head back to show his prominent Adam’s apple. “As much as I love England, I love it more here.”  
I’m blown away by this, the fact that he chose America over England, while I would do anything to get out of this country - so I tell him.   
“Have you never left America?”  
I can only shake my head, knowing that it is an answer in itself, and he then turns to my mother. “What about you, Mary Margaret?”  
“Oh, yes!” she answers happily - then remembers that most of her travels were to other worlds and not other countries. “David and I went to England once,” (Camelot) “and to Canada,” (actual truth) “But I would love to see more of this world.” I hear the emphasis on the “this,” but Killian’s unchanged facial expression makes me believe that he does not.   
I assume he sees the time on the oven, because he jumps up, downing the rest of his glass of water with eyes wide as if in terror. “I was supposed to be somewhere ten minutes ago. Thank you, ladies! I’ll see you around!” As he slips out the door, he flashes me a smile that makes my heart skip a beat, something I was not expecting in the least.  
“He is cute, though,” my mother comments after he pulls the door closed behind him - but I can’t form any words.


	2. 2

At first, I didn’t even realize I was staring.  
Then, I tried to stop.  
But after a few seconds, I just can’t help it, and I can’t pull my eyes away - he was… well, beautiful. I know that’s not usually a word used to describe a male, but I can’t think of a more perfect one: he’s a masterpiece, from his shaggy black hair to the dark sea of chest hair to the tattoo that stretches across every square inch of his back, and - oh, how perfectly those black jeans fit him. His arms are raised above his head as he carries two or three long boards to the front of the house, towards what looks like the beginnings of a sizable front porch.   
He has to have seen me by now, I’ve been here for too long - so I save it while I can.   
“Hey, Killian!” I call out, waving to him across my mother’s flower bed, trying not to smile too much, and I can’t tell if I succeed or not. But he smiles back, which I guess is a good sign, and yet another addition to the masterpiece.   
“Hey, Emma, how are you?” A piece of dark grey fabric appears in his hands, and when he uses it to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, I realize that it’s a t-shirt.   
“What are you doing over there?” I realize I’ve stuck my hands into my back pockets, standing with the same bad posture that my mother always yelled at me for.   
When he turns back around from glancing behind him, he looks immensely proud. “A front porch. My lady wants somewhere to sunbathe, so I’m building her a spot.”  
My confidence drops when I realized what he just said: ‘my lady.’ So I repeat the phrase back to him.   
Instead of responding, he walks towards his front door, opens it, and yells, “Hey, Lady!” In moments, a large dalmation runs out of the house, ears flapping and tail wagging. “Emma, this is Lady.”  
I can’t hide the smile that comes to my face. “For a moment I thought you meant - “ but I just let it drop.   
He picks up what I was getting at, and I feel the blood rush to my face as he says, “No, I just haven’t found the right person yet. And Lady is very picky.”  
I can’t help but see coincidence in what picky little Lady does next: runs right up to me, as if I were her best friend, catapulting her sleek, smooth body over my mother’s flower bed. When I command her to do so, she throws her large paws onto my shoulders and licks my face. The look of shock that covers Killian’s face shows me that she does not do this often. “Lady, get down!” He is obviously awestruck by her actions even though I initiated them.  
“Killian, she’s fine. I love dogs, though I’ve never met one who responded so avidly to my commands.”  
His eyes are wide and wild with surprise. “I’ve never seen her act like this, actually. I don’t know what’s up with her, because she usually doesn’t like going near people, especially not people she’s never met before.”  
I flash him a smile, and Lady licks my cheek again. “I guess I’m the exception, then.”

 

“Mom? Are you home?” The silence I hear after closing the door behind me makes me believe that she’s not. After a quick scan of the ground floor - everything except our bedrooms and the big bathroom - I prove my hypothesis correct. We had dinner plans, so the fact that she’s not here confuses me a little bit, so I go through my normal routine of getting to mom’s: fill the tea kettle and put it on the stove; turn on the whole-house radio to the classic rock station; check the litter bin and the water and food in the gecko cage. I’m in the middle of taking roll of all the cats when she finally pushes through the garage door, her hands full of grocery bags.   
“Hey, mom, I was wondering where you were.”  
Her smile is straight out of older pictures of her. “I went to make us dinner, and realized that I didn’t have most of the ingredients I needed, so I ran to the grocery store. You haven’t been here long, have you?”  
Glancing at the clock over the stove, I shrug. “Fifteen minutes or so.”  
“You must have gotten here moments after I left.”  
As she begins putting all of the groceries away, there’s a strong knock on the front door. We share a glance before I walk through the threshold into the living room. Through the window at the top of the front door, I can see the top half of Killian’s face, his green eyes shining in the dusk light. When I open the door for him, I notice that his hair is wet, and he is wearing different clothing than fifteen minutes ago - he must have showered.   
“Emma, hello.” I simply smile at him as he continues. “I don’t know what happened. One minute, I was in the shower, and the next, the power went off. I was going to make dinner, but I can’t do that with no power. Would it be okay if I ate over here with you and your mother?” When I turn around to check with her, she is already listening through the doorway; without missing a beat, she smiles at him and nods.   
“We would love to have you over for dinner.” While Killian might only see motherly love in her eyes, I can see that she is planning something, though I don’t know what yet. “I’m just about to start it, actually. Do you like shepherd’s pie?”  
He contorts his somehow perfectly bushy eyebrows into a “V.” “I’m afraid that I’ve never heard of that before, ma’am. We have no such thing in Ireland, at least not by the same name.”  
Mary Margaret smiles. “Well, Killian, you’re going to love it.”  
After a moment of awkward silence, my mother goes back into the kitchen, and I take residence on my usual spot on the couch, right in the corner. While the room is full of other options, Killian sits down inches away from me, tossing his head against the back of the couch and letting his shaggy hair dangle off the edge. I catch myself staring at him again, and turn on the TV for something to stare at that won’t be as awkward.   
“Do you mind cop shows, Killian?” I ask, not waiting for an answer before turning on old reruns of “CSI: New York.”   
When he shrugs, the back cushion of the couch moves with his broad shoulders. “I’ve never gotten into them, but I haven’t really tried, either.”   
Silently, I take his answer, already trying to figure out whether or not I’ve seen this episode using only a few seconds as a reference (I have), and trying to see how much of it I remember (not very much).   
When Gary Sinese appears on screen, he pulls me out of my focus by asking, “That’s the guy from ‘Forrest Gump’, right?”  
I nod to him, trying not to obsess over how close to me he is sitting - and realizing that in any other situation, it would make me highly uncomfortable, but now I feel quite the opposite. With the whole couch to cover, he is sitting with his arm almost touching mine, giving me the eerie feeling of contact even though I know there is none. I try to shift my focus back onto ‘CSI,’ back to Gary Sinese and Eddie Cahill trying to solve crimes, but it’s to no avail - I can’t shake my focus on the space between our untouching arms.   
Thankfully, my mother appears in the doorway again. “Killian, don’t you have a dog?”  
Her words make him jump, which leads me to believe that he was as out of focus as I was. “Yes, ma’am,” he replies after a moment.  
“Is she okay over there on her own? Or do you want to bring her over here?”  
“Is she good with cats?” I ask, not giving him a chance to answer.  
But he just smiles. “She’s such a loving soul, and is good with any animal. Are the cats good with her?”  
Now my mother smiles. “They’ll just hide upstairs. Why don’t you go get her, then she won’t have to be over there all alone.”  
He takes a moment - and only a moment - to think about this, then gets up and walks out the front door without a word.  
My mother flashes her smile at me. “I could feel the tension in this room from the kitchen. Talk to each other, Emma. You need a man like him.”  
“Mom, two weeks ago, you had a crush on him, and now you’re trying to hook us up. Will it never end?” She rolls her eyes at me, but I continue anyway. “Why did you make him go get Lady? I’m sure she was fine.”  
“I wanted to talk to you.”  
“You couldn’t just pull me into the kitchen?”  
She ignores my question. “I was talking to him yesterday when he was weeding my flower bed - “  
“Mom!”  
“ - and he has an interest in you, Emma. He thinks you’re beautiful, and he wants to get to know you.”  
“And he told you all this when he was weeding your garden?”  
She nods, as if she doesn’t see the problem with this situation.  
And maybe she doesn’t.  
“If he has an interest in me, then he should tell me in person, not spout his personal feelings to a random old lady - “  
“Hey!”  
“ - while he does her yard work for her. He’s a grown man, mom. He can run his own life.”  
“Then why hasn’t he done anything yet?”  
“I’ve only known him for two weeks. That’s not a very strong basis for a relationship.”  
“You need this, Emma. And if you’re going to go for it, then you need to work for it.”  
I’m all ready to yell back at her when the front door slides open and Lady prances in, followed by her windswept owner.  
“When I asked her if she wanted to come over, she sprinted out the door as if she knew what I was saying!” She comes right around the edge of the couch, straight to me, and I hold her head in my hands as she tosses her tongue out to lick my cheek. “I’ve seriously never seen her act like this around anybody before, not even me.”  
“Emma has always had a talent for connecting with dogs,” my mother comments, flashing me the same knowledgable smile as before before she turns back into the kitchen. 

 

“This food is delicious, Mrs. Nolan,” Killian comments, then stuffs another fork-full into his mouth. “What did you say it was called?”  
She chuckles at him. “Shepherd’s pie. It was one of David’s favorites.” As she says this, she gently places one of her hands over her heart and stares longingly at his picture on the wall above the table, as she does almost every time he is mentioned.  
“What did your husband do again?”  
Her smile turns into one that she only wears when she talks about my father. “He was a shepherd when he was younger, with his older brother. Then he…” she takes a moment, pretending to compose herself as she realizes that Killian would not understand that he was a prince in a faraway realm. “Then he was a small business owner until he retired, and we moved up here to Maine.”  
Not all a lie, I think to myself.  
“If you don’t mind me asking, Mrs. Nolan…” He pauses for a moment, both of us knowing the question that lays think in the air. “How did you lose your husband?”  
A thousand thoughts roll through my head, spinning like a roll of film, but instead of making a movie, they make an unnecessarily painful stream of pictures - memories, thoughts, visions, ideas.  
This is always the question of the century. The glance I share with my mother assures me that I’m not the only one who still worries about this question, even three years later. How do you explain to someone that your father went to travel back to a different realm and never returned? How do you make them understand that he may not even be dead, only lost? Or stuck? Or maybe just staying in Camelot?   
“He was… He left one night to visit his friend Arthur, and when he didn’t come back the next morning, we went out looking for him.” I hear the choke in her voice, the pause that she needs to take to pull herself together. “We found his car, but not his body.” After a few moments, I realize she is going to leave it at this - all the truth.  
But for some reason, I just want to tell him - tell him everything. But now is not the time, and my mother’s raised eyebrows towards my expression prove this to me.  
“I’m sorry for your loss. For both of you.” Then he stuffs another fork-full into his mouth.   
After a few moments of silence, now it’s mom’s turn to ask the questions: “So, Killian, what made you choose Maine?”  
It takes him a moment to finish chewing. “My pop was over here once, for a conference or something not far from here. When I told him I was staying in America, he told me to come visit up here, see how I liked it.” He downs a few mouthfuls from his glass of iced tea. “Needless to say, I connected with it. And they’re pretty similar climate wise. Actually very much alike, for more than climate.”  
“What did your father study again?”  
“Maritime history. Specifically pirates, but anything to do with ships - he loves ships.”  
“Pirate ships,” I repeat, almost joking, then remembering some of the stories my father told me about that exact subject; pirates are no joke - he learned from experience. “Do you know why? I mean, why pirates?”  
His fork is already halfway to his mouth, so he just shrugs. “He never really told me,” he admits before taking the bite. “But those movies with the weird British guy? The pirate, named something about a bird? He loves those movies.”  
I can’t help but laugh at this. “”Pirates of the Caribbean?” His mouth full, he nods at me. “Captain Jack Sparrow? Is that the British guy?” Nods again. “Killian, he’s from Kentucky.”   
His eyes grow so wide I fear he might spit his food out on me. “No way!”   
I can’t help but internally compare his face to that of a little boy, one who just learned the truth about Santa Clause or the Tooth Fairy.   
After a moment of somewhat hilarious silence, my mother speaks up. “Killian, of your power doesn’t come back this evening, you are welcome to stay here with us. You and lady.” While I try my hardest not to roll my eyes at her, I’m not sure that I succeed.  
He matches her smile with his own. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Nolan, but - “  
“It’s not an argument, Killian,” she says with the motherly-strict voice that she is so well known for. “If you don’t have power, you’re sleeping on the pull out.”  
This time, he doesn’t argue. “Thank you.”

 

“Is there anything else you need before I go to bed?” My mother has already turned the couch into the pull-out bed, completed with a fitted sheet and five pillows (even though I’m the only person who actually needs five pillows.)   
“No, Mrs. Nolan, I’m fine. Thank you so much.”  
Her smile widens (if that’s even possible.) “Good night, Killian.”  
“Good night.”  
I wait until I hear her bedroom door close before I turn to him. “Is there anything else you need from me before I go to bed?”  
A flash of excitement passes across his face, the corners of his mouth flickering into a smile for just a moment. “Well, there is one thing.”  
Before I could begin to think of an answer, he presses his hand to the back of my neck and pulls his face to mine. It takes me a moment to realize what has happened; but once I figure it out, I do everything I can to keep it from stopping.


	3. Chapter 3

“He’s a very nice man, you know, Emma,” my mother says to me over breakfast the next morning. “You two should get dinner sometime.”

I just roll my eyes at her, “Mom, I’m old enough to plan my own dates, you know.”

“I know, Emma, but you’re not always very good at it.”

“Well, if it’ll make you so happy, I’ll ask him when I see him next.”

Her ever-present smile grows. A knowing look in her eye.

“Mom,” I say before she can do anything. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” she insists, taking a sip of her cup of tea. “I didn’t do anything. But I may have said something to Killian while he was getting ready this morning.”

“Mom!”

“I just dropped a few hints! Nevertheless, he agrees with me, and said he was going to ask you to dinner anyway, before I even said anything. So I didn’t sway anyone, I just acted as a sort of… catalyst.” She takes another sip of her tea, then turns to look at the clock on the wall. “Do you have anything you need to do for work today, or do I get to spend yet another Wednesday with my wonderful daughter?”

“I have an article I have to finish, but it won’t take me very long. After that, I’m all yours, as long as you keep the conversation away from the subject of men.”

“I mean, I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try my best.”

Taking my cup of tea with me, I push away from the table and head back up the stairs to my bedroom.

“Take your time, sweetie,” she calls after me, and I hear her clattering in the kitchen before I’m all the way up the stairs. “Come down when you’re ready and we can go shopping, and find something for your date later!”

With that, I close my bedroom door behind me, perhaps a little harder than I meant to.

 

**

 

“Emma!” As soon as I step out of my mother’s car, I know I’ve been set up – I even called my mother out with looking at her phone too much, and it had to have been because of this.

With all of the shopping bags in her hands, my mother ignores me when I call after her, letting herself into the house through the open garage door, and leaving me all alone in the driveway.

First I take a quick deep breath, then turn towards him, a smile plastered on my face, though I’m fully unsure how I feel. “Killian, hey!” In full contrast with his tight jeans and, well, lack of a t-shirt from the day before, his “teacher clothes” are a pleasant surprise, consisting of a clean, white button-down shirt and a loosened yellow and blue tie, the top buttons of the shirt undone and the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His black dress pants are (somehow) still pleated after a whole day at work, sleek lines running from his waist to his ankles, after which he dons a plain pair of black dress shoes.

“How was your shopping day with your mother?” I must have some sort of bewildered look on my face, because he clarifies, “She told me that was your plan before I left this morning. Thanks again for letting me crash, and for – well, everything.” At the very end of this, a huge grin spreads across his face, obviously remembering the shared kiss from the night before.

“You’re absolutely welcome, Killian, it really wasn’t a problem.” She feels her face begin to redden, also remembering the shared kiss from the night before, and how good it felt to have someone that felt that way about me, his warm hands against my face, so innocent and emotional and perfect – and with that realization, I discover that, no matter how embarrassed my mother was, or how awkward I tend to be at the wrong times, there’s no way to hide from it, and there’s no reason to want to.

Instead of standing awkwardly in the driveway, I close the gap between us, meeting just about halfway, as he begins to do the same. Suddenly, nothing is awkward anymore, when he has one hand wrapped around my waist and the other holding the back of my neck, my arms wrapped around his neck, thumbing the shaggy locks of hair that sit just below his pristine collar.

Nothing is awkward, that is, until I pull my face away from his after what may have been a little too good of a kiss, and see my mother peering through the kitchen window.

“Killian,” I whisper in his ear, trying not to give away any sign that we see her. “Don’t react, or I’ll never hear the end of it, but I believe we’re being watched.”

He’s comical trying to look at my mother without looking towards her, doing his best to utilize his peripheral vision and failing pretty well.

“What do you suggest we do about our watching eye?”

“Well, I still haven’t seen the inside of your house. At least, not while it’s been your house.” I press my lips against his, quick and simple, then add, “And my mother can’t surprise us when we’re there.”

“Well, that’s always a nice thing to have, and it would be my pleasure to show you around.”

We both turn towards his house, his arm still wrapped around my waist, silent until we enter the side door, where we’re greeted by a graceful Lady, who slides across the fake hardwood with excitement. His mud room is small, yet all the space is allocated: stacked front-facing washer and dryer with two rods running parallel to each other, one lined with hangers and the other empty. On the wall to the left is a large black and white portrait of a single ship, its every detail as clean and pristine as the room itself. Against the same wall sits an old wooden cabinet lined with folded and organized towels, wash cloths, dish towels, and blankets, and the third wall covered with mops, brooms, vacuum extensions and a handful of tools, all hung from matching hooks and labeled in thick, black caps writing.

“There really isn’t much to say about this room, really,” Killian comments, taking her hand and moving her along. “But here’s the kitchen, recently renovated.”

Once again, everything is spotless. All of the appliances, from the refrigerator to the microwave to the toaster, are stainless steel, and the floors covered with a shining silver tile to match. Everything that isn’t an appliance is either red or black: a black sink surrounded by spotted red marble countertops; black patina cabinets, revealing a similar red underneath; alternating red and black dishes sitting neatly on black wooden shelving above the arm of the countertop that does not run parallel to a wall. Everything on the countertops obviously has a place, and stays there, from the small bottles of spices lined up on the top of the stove to the boxes of tea stacked next to the sink.

“Killian, this is gorgeous.”

“I just like when everything is where it belongs.”

As they step through the doorway into the living room, Lady saunters up next to them, setting herself directly under Emma’s hand so she has no choice but to pet her.

The living room itself isn’t as impressive as the kitchen, but it’s just as spotless, the floors back to the same fake hardwood as the mud room and the walls painted a grey so dark it would almost classify as black – though with all of the natural light pouring in through the bay window and the skylights, the room is far from somber. To contrast the overall darkness, two identical tan couches sit up against the walls, facing the entertainment center, which in itself takes up the whole wall. At the bottom sits a small cabinet with glass doors, revealing the multiple types pf players and accessories. Above that sits three wall-to-wall bookshelves, all covered with movies and music, organized by type: CD’s, DVD’s, cassettes, vinyl – everything. Then comes the TV, which Emma estimates to be about sixty inches, taking up a good portion of the remaining wall. The wall opposite the bay window is covered by a set of stairs, which lead up to a balcony – where Killian leads her next. The steps are real hardwood, “with carpet up the inside for Lady,” as Killian explains. At the top of the steps sits another sofa, this one smaller and dark brown, sitting on an angle so it points down the hallway, which has three doors: one on one side, two on the other. The come across the first door on the left first, which is open to reveal a light-blue bathroom with another sky light, the shower covered by a black and white picture of a skyline.

The last two doors are across the hall from each other, at the opposite end than the couch.

He points to the door on the left. “This is the library, and is the only room in the house that I haven’t finished yet, so we don’t need to go in there – at least, not yet.” He adds the last part with a smile. “And this,” he continues, laying his hand on the last door. “Is the master suite – my bedroom.”

“Finally,” I whisper under my breath, then press both of my hands against his chest and push him into the room, my lips planted firmly on his.


End file.
